


Gymnopaedia

by volta_arovet



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volta_arovet/pseuds/volta_arovet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joshua and friendships, from when he was human, to when he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gymnopaedia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Senri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senri/gifts).



1963

Shibuya is terrifying, and every five days it gets worse. Yoshiya runs down the street, hands over his ears, head ducked down, breaking stride only to duck around the people and terrifying beasts in his way.

He probably looks crazy to those people, dodging things that aren’t there.

He probably is crazy.

He doesn’t care. He just saw those beasts tear a young girl apart, and he’s not sticking around to be their second victim. He just puts his head down and he runs and he is not not not not not not crying.

A door opens and a weird-looking man in sunglasses is waving at him. “Hey, kid! In here!”

Yoshiya ducks into the door, not really caring what was inside so long as he wasn’t on the streets anymore.

It’s a café. He can’t see any of the dark beasts or the tattoo-like symbols that precede them. He slumps down on the ground, back pressed against the door.

“You okay?” the man asks. “Where’s your partner?”

Yoshiya rubs his sleeve over his face, drying his nose and the not-tears. “Huh?”

The man peers closer at Yoshiya. “Sorry, my mistake.”

Yoshiya looks up at him. The man is dressed really strangely, with sunglasses, a dark sweater, and a weird pancake-like hat. “What are you supposed to be?”

The man laughs. “Me? I’m a beatnik! It’s an American thing, don’t worry about it,” he clarifies when Yoshiya looks confused. “My name’s Sanae Hanekoma. I own this place. Pretty groovy, huh?”

“Um, yeah,” Yoshiya sort of agrees.

“Well, it’s a work in progress,” Hanekoma laughs, and rubs the back of his neck. “Here, take a seat, let me get you some soup.”

Yoshiya slowly gets up and stumbles into a chair. Hanekoma plunks a big cup of steaming orange soup in front of him. Yoshiya looks up at him.

“It’s pumpkin soup,” Hanekoma explains. He makes little eating motions. “Go on, eat it. It’ll make you feel braver.”

Yoshiya takes a small sip of it, and then a huge gulp when it hits his stomach and he starts to feel warm and calm inside.

“Whoa, careful! Don’t burn your tongue!” Hanekoma cautions, but Yoshiya ignores him. Hanekoma waits calmly until Yoshiya finishes his meal. “Feel better?”

Yoshiya nods. Strangely enough, he does.

“So, what’s your name, kid?” Hanekoma asks.

“Yoshiya,” he says, adding, “but my parents call me Joshua.”

“Heh. How about that. So, Joshua, want to talk about what you were running from?” Hanekoma asks.

Yoshiya freezes.

“Was it the monsters or the ghosts?” he clarifies.

“Monsters,” Yoshiya whispers.

Hanekoma clucks his tongue sympathetically. “Harsh.” He gets up and goes behind the counter, pouring two cups of coffee. He puts one in front of Yoshiya and takes a sip out of the other. “Just so you know, so long as you’re alive and human, they can’t even touch you.”

“Oh.” Yoshiya tries some coffee and winces at the taste.

“It grows on you,” Hanekoma assures him. “So, what do you think of Shibuya? I mean, beyond the ghosts and monsters and terrifying things.”

“It sucks,” Yoshiya says, surprised into honesty. Hanekoma smiles in a friendly fashion and waves a hand in a ‘please elaborate’ gesture. “There’s nothing going on here. There’s no music or art or anything interesting, and everyone seems so miserable.”

Hanekoma points at Yoshiya and flicks his thumb down like he is shooting a pistol. “Got it in one, kid. Those monsters you see? They come from people’s frustrations, and right now, everyone’s feeling frustrated because the guy in charge isn’t doing his job.”

Yoshiya frowns. “Guy in charge?”

Hanekoma waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. So, you like art and music?”

Yoshiya smiles shyly. “Yeah. But I’m not much good at it.”

Hanekoma shakes his head. “Hey, that doesn’t matter. We artists are always in need of art appreciators!”

Yoshiya’s eyes widen a little. “You’re an artist?”

Hanekoma wiggles his eyebrows. “I dabble,” he says modestly. “I’m thinking about putting up a collection in here. You’re welcome to come see it anytime.” He leans in a little closer. “Things out there are royally messed up because everyone’s unhappy, but in here, you’ll always be safe. You dig?”

Yoshiya nods. “I dig,” he repeats.

“All right.” Hanekoma reaches out and ruffles Yoshiya’s hair. He then presses a thumb to Yoshiya’s forehead. Yoshiya thinks he saw a quick flash of light burst between his eyes. “There you go.”

Yoshiya clasps his hands over his forehead. “What was that?”

“Just a little insurance. Hey, little bit of trivia. Did you know that Joshua was the one who lead everyone into paradise after the first guy messed up?” Hanekoma says.

“What does that mean?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Hanekoma replies, and grins.

Yoshiya grins back and takes another sip of coffee. It doesn’t taste quite so bitter anymore.

***  
2005

The Composer drifts through Shibuya.

He flits by the Harajuku girls in their bangles and miss-matched fabrics, the gothic Lolita in their frills and petticoats and dainty little hats, the punks with their shaved heads and piercings, and it is all so very boring.

“Show me something new,” he whispers to the district.

He whirls around the fashion district, surrounding himself with colors, fabrics, textures, patterns. A store clerk is trying to convince a shopper that “They say eggplant is the new black, but we say teal is the new eggplant!”

“Obnoxious,” the Composer mutters to himself, and the shopper politely excuses herself and leaves without buying anything.

The brand will be considered passé within the month.

He exits the store and flies down the street, across the crossing, and sits on Hachiko’s back.

“Isn’t it so dull?” he asks the dog statue. It doesn’t respond. “It was so fun, at the beginning. Now it’s just the same thing over and over again. There’s no thought to it, no depth. CAT’s the only collective doing anything of the slightest interest and—“ He stops and crooks a wing in amusement. “Well, look who I’m talking to. You never got bored waiting all those years, and I imagine you hate cats. I don’t think we would have gotten along.”

The Composer sighs and drapes himself over the dog statue, propping his chin up between its ears. A girl is sitting at its feet, studying a textbook. She’s very plain—school uniform, bland haircut, no accessories. Something about her just makes your eyes want to keep moving without taking anything in, like she emits a field which pushes you to forget her the moment you’re not looking at her.

But.

She has a toy cat.

The Composer slides down Hachiko’s back and kneels at the girl’s side. The cat’s pretty cute, actually. It kind of looks like a pig, but for some reason, it works. The craftsmanship is good, too. Beyond that, it’s got a certain energy, a thrill of the joys of creation that feels so rare these days.

“Cute cat,” the Composer remarks.

“Cute cat!” a girl walking by says. This one is the polar opposite of the plain girl—bright hair, bright clothes, bright smile.

“Thanks,” the plain girl says, and adds, shyly, “I made it.”

“No way!” The fashionable girl sits next to the plain girl. “Can I see it?” She carefully picks up the doll and inspects it, cooing in admiration over its cuteness.

The Composer notices a faint glow of inspiration coming from the fashionable girl’s bag. “What’s in the bag?” he wonders out loud.

“Oh!” The fashionable girl opens up her bag and pulls out a sketchbook. “Do you do clothes, too? Because I have so many ideas!”

The girls chatter on in excitement, and the Composer can see their brightness growing. He reaches out a hand and presses his thumb against their foreheads, each one in turn, leaving a faint glowing mark. He likes this pair. They’d definitely deserve a second chance, if either of them were to die.

“By the way, my name’s Eri,” the fashionable girl says.

The plain girl smiles shyly, and by the time she’s said, “My name’s Shiki,” the Composer has already flown away.

***

2007

The Composer—no, Joshua, he’s Joshua now, must remember to think Human—sneaks into the back room of the main office. Everyone is looking for him and he wants to spend a week observing before he really gets into the game, so it’s probably best to go hide in the last place they’d think he’d be hiding. In this case, that would be the center of everything: the place where the players’ sacrifices are held.

He pulls open a drawer and peeks inside. The contents are a deep indigo with little hints of purple here and there. He dips a finger in and trails it around, and he hears a sweet song in his head. This must have been someone’s singing voice. It’s raw and unpolished, but powerful and somewhat charming in its sincerity. He can tell by the way it shines that its owner has already lost the game. At the end of the month, it will be recycled back into Shibuya, and someone else will feel its inspiration.

Well, if Joshua doesn’t destroy Shibuya before then.

Joshua pulls open another drawer and sees a swirling mass of anger and inspiration and superiority. Hello, Neku. Might as well wait on that one; it’ll take a while. In the meantime, where is Neku’s partner?

Eeny, meeny, miny, that one. He slides open the drawer and is disappointed by its contents. It’s a physicality, the essence of a body. Interesting in concept, but there’s not much more to be learned from it. He’ll have to learn more about her by direct observation.

He’s ready to go back to Neku’s drawer, but a different drawer is opened a crack and he can hear a song leaking out. He pulls it open and sees a divider splitting it in two. Very interesting. Well, that explains how someone he hadn’t chosen made the game.

He dips a finger in and hears the song, louder now, and more clear, sweet and a little angry. The lyrics are actually pretty clever, he thinks. A splash of green from the other side jumps the boundary and mixes with the peach song, and Joshua can see the memories playing in his head.

“Hey there, whatchu doin’?” Joshua asks, barging into Rhyme’s room.

Rhyme squeals and throws her body over her desk, covering the lyrics she was working on. “Beat! Knock first!” she yells. “Fools rush in, remember?”

“Sorry ‘bout that!” Joshua says, turning around so his back is to Rhyme. “Ma says it’s time for lunch.”

“Oh. Thanks!” He can hear Rhyme rustling some papers.

“So…whatcha workin’ on?” Joshua asks lightly.

“Stuff,” Rhyme says cagily.

“Oh. Stuff. I love stuff!” Joshua laces his fingers behind his back and leans back, glancing over his shoulders. “So if you ever want to show anyone stuff, make sure I’m first on the list, ‘k?”

Rhyme giggles. “Okay, Beat. But it’s got to be perfect first.”

“Awright, but I’m sure whatever you make is already pretty awesome.”

Rhyme jumps up to join Joshua, and the memory starts to fade. It leaves a strange feeling in Joshua’s heart.

“Huh,” Joshua says.

He shakes his head to clear it, and moves back to Neku’s drawer.

***

2016

There are posters on the wall everywhere—overlapping, crooked, brightly colored pop art next to delicately painted watercolors next to bold movie advertisements next to garish magazine covers. It’s impossible to tell the original color of the walls. Everything is covered in layer upon layer of paper, an archeological history of the past five years of modern art.

The desk is organized and neat, though. It’s a huge draftsman desk with reams of white paper curled up next to a long container of markers, subdivided by color.

The work is going well tonight, Neku thinks. At this rate, he’ll have the roughs for his next legit exhibition done in a couple of days. After that, he’ll go back to working on a few tags, or trying to figure out the design for Rhyme’s next album cover. He’d actually had a few good ideas for that. As a matter of fact…

Neku tears out a new sheaf of paper and started doodling some designs. It isn’t bad at all, actually. Kind of abstract, but it had a real pull to it. It needs a color scheme…green, he thinks, should be good. He reaches for the green markers and, at the last moment, changes his mind and grabs an orange marker instead.

He stops the marker a centimeter above the paper and says, “Knock it off, Joshua.”

Joshua solidifies next to him, sitting on his desk. His feet dangle off the edge, swinging back and forth. He still looks like he’s fifteen. “How did you know I was here?”

Neku snorts. “I always get project ADD whenever you’re around. I appreciate the attention, but I really need to get my other work done first before I work on Rhyme’s stuff.” He pauses for a minute. “Also, green is a much better color scheme than orange.”

“What’s wrong with orange?” Joshua seems more affronted at the insult to the color than any of Neku’s other accusations.

“Orange is terrible. Stop trying to make orange a thing. Orange will never be a thing.”

Joshua grabs an orange marker and flips it around. “I could make orange a thing.”

“That’s cheating,” Neku says and glares, but there’s no real heat in it.

“I like your new addition to Ebisu Station,” Joshua says, fiddling with the marker. “Very provocative.”

“Rhyme says you’ve been hanging around her place recently,” Neku says very lightly.

“She noticed?” Joshua asks, sounding flattered. “I’ve just been listening. She doesn’t need my help.”

“Were you the one who convinced her to shave her head?” Neku asks.

“Maaaaaybe.” Joshua kicks his feet back and forth very innocently. “Okay, no.” he says at last. “I wish I were, but that was entirely her doing.”

“Really? Huh.” Neku scratches his nose. “Anyway, she says if you’re going to be a creeper, she’d rather you be a visible creeper, okay?”

Joshua cocks his head in confusion.

“Talk to her. Face to face. Like a human would,” Neku explains in simple words.

Joshua frowns. “You hated me as a human,” he points out.

“Yes, well, that was before I knew you as a Composer,” Neku answers.

Joshua holds a hand over his heart. “That may be the most insulting thing I have ever heard. Well done, Neku.”

Neku sighs and turns away from his work, staring at Joshua dead on. “You want me for your Conductor, right?”

Joshua studies his nails. “Maybe.”

“Well, if we’re going to do this someday, you’ve got to keep a foot in the real world. Most of the inspiration I’ve gotten for my works isn’t from you; it’s from conversations I’ve had with people here in the RG. Look, I know you’re this weird supernatural,” he waves a hand, “ _thing_ for the city, but if you want to inspire Rhyme—“

“She doesn’t need it,” Joshua mutters.

“—Or Shiki—“

“She needs it even less.”

“—then you’ve got to get one thing,” Neku finishes despite Joshua’s interruptions.

Silence hangs on the room until Joshua is sure that Neku won’t continue unless he’s asked. “What?”

“A human connection. Friends, Joshua. You need friends.”

Joshua laughs and leans back on the desk. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and disappears. Neku’s never one hundred percent certain, but it feels like Joshua has left. All in all, that didn’t go as badly as he’d thought. And at least now he can get back to the more time-pressing work.

Neku turns back to his desk. His design has been colored in orange.

It looks good.

Dammit.


End file.
